


A Strange God Wishing

by thechandrian



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechandrian/pseuds/thechandrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire does not understand why his friends keep insisting that Enjolras is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No harm intended, no profit made. I do not own Les Mis.
> 
> This fic is in no way intended to be an accurate portrayal of mental illness.
> 
> All historical inaccuracies & anachronisms are my own.

Grantaire looked up from his bottle as the loud voices of the _amis_ pulled him from his thoughts. He was thinking of Enjolras, of these ridiculous revolutionary meetings he’d been attending for a month now. He had started going ironically at the beginning, though by now he knew he could not quit even if he tried. He remembered Courfeyrac saying,

“This will be good for you.”

And he remembered answering, “There’s nothing good for me.”

Grantaire was lonely, depressed, and saw fit to drown all of his problems in a bottle. Before attending these meetings, before meeting Enjolras, he could not remember what it felt like to be inspired, or passionate.

“Grantaire!” he heard Courfeyrac say, as he approached the table where Grantaire had been sitting for the past hour, hoping to become sufficiently intoxicated before the meeting began. “You’re not usually early.”

“What can I say,” Grantaire began, “I’m dedicated to the cause.”

Courfeyrac laughed, knowing that Grantaire was full of shit. It was not exactly a huge secret what he thought about the _amis_ and their ideas. In fact, he frequently interrupted the meetings to tell them what he thought in explicit detail.

_And to have Enjolras’s attention_ , Grantaire thought, bitterly, _even if just for a moment._

As if on cue, Enjolras entered the Café Musain, carrying a huge stack of papers that seemed to be seconds away from toppling over and making a huge mess.

“Need some help, Apollo?” Grantaire said, taking a swig of wine, and making no motion to help.

Enjolras just glared at Grantaire before walking faster towards the desk at the back of the café and dramatically throwing down the papers.

“Friends!” Enjolras said loudly, standing up on a chair and calling everyone’s attention to him (as though Enjolras didn’t instantly have the attention of everyone in the room), “Today we are going to plan our next protest—”

Enjolras was interrupted by a commotion at the door. It was Marius, arriving late. Recently, Marius had been showing up later and later to the meetings and showing less and less enthusiasm for the revolution. Grantaire could tell that this upset Enjolras, but noted also that Enjolras never felt the need to scold Marius, like he would Grantaire.

Grantaire told himself, when he was well past the point of intoxication, that this was because Enjolras must care about him deep down, and must really believe in his ability to contribute to the revolution, whereas he did not care one way or the other about Marius.

At times like this, however, it was hard to convince himself that Enjolras cared at all.

“Ah, Marius,” Enjolras said, motioning to one of the empty chairs, “I was just talking about our next protest.”

“I think Marius has something other than protest on his mind,” Grantaire teased, knowing that bringing up Marius’s love affair was a certain way to annoy the living hell out of Enjolras.

Enjolras once again sent a deadly glare Grantaire’s way.

“You’re right,” Marius said, oblivious to the fact that Enjolras would probably rather throw himself out of a window than listen to Marius talk about girls. “I have been distracted lately. But if any of you met Cosette, you’d know why.”

“I’m sure we would,” Enjolras said, “now as I was saying—”

Suddenly, Marius erupted dramatically, “Today I discovered that Cosette is moving to England! I shall never see her again!”

Enjolras just stared at Marius, probably unsure whether or not it would be unkind to ignore him.

Grantaire decided to help in the best way he knew how,

“Here, have a drink,” he said, offering his bottle to Marius. Marius, a serious light-weight who hardly ever drank, took the bottle willingly.

Enjolras scoffed. “Marius, pull yourself together. No one cares about your lonely soul. And Grantaire, we hardly need another drunk at this meeting.”

“I know,” Grantaire said, winking, “you can hardly handle one.”

Enjolras stared blankly at him for a moment before ignoring him,

“Anyway,” he said, not bothering to hide the annoyance from his voice, “our next protest is going to be at the _Montreuil-sur-Mer_ , a local glass bead factory. As you know, this establishment is run by the famous Monsieur Madeleine, who, despite being a decent person, has failed to keep up with the abhorrent conditions that his workers are facing.”

Enjolras stepped down from his chair, and gathered a handful of pamphlets from the desk.

“We’re going down there tomorrow and passing out pamphlets and talking to the people,” Enjolras said, handing stacks of pamphlets to each of the _amis_ , “if we can convince them that a revolution means better standards of work, we can appeal to their concerns and get them on our side.”

Enjolras hesitated as he reached Grantaire.

“What?” Grantaire said, smiling, “you don’t trust me with your precious pamphlets?”

“Will you even be there?” Enjolras said, scornfully.

“Of course I will, Apollo,” Grantaire said, taking the stack out of Enjolras’s hands, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Well, good,” Enjolras said, and then muttered, “and stop calling me Apollo.”

There wasn’t much to the meeting after that, and Enjolras soon retired to his desk with explicit orders that he was to be left alone.

Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly, and the other _amis_ quickly made excuses to leave as it became obvious that Marius was going to begin talking about Cosette again.

Grantaire didn’t exactly have anywhere to go and didn’t fancy being alone with his thoughts, and so he led Marius to the bar and ordered a glass of wine for Marius and a bottle for himself.

“You can’t understand,” Marius said, intoxication already clouding his eyes as he sipped his wine, “she’s perfect in every way. She’s like the sun and stars.”

“That sounds great,” Grantaire said, thinking about Enjolras.

“If I never see her again, I’ll just die,” Marius said.

“Sometimes life isn’t worth living,” Grantaire said, solemnly, “if you can’t have that one person who makes it worth it.”

Marius looked up at Grantaire.

“Are you in love too, R?” he slurred.

Grantaire did his best not to look over at Enjolras, who was probably still frantically writing out pamphlets and planning tomorrow’s demonstration. “I guess you could say that.”

The two of them ordered more and more wine, and soon it became apparent that Marius was in no state to go anywhere. Grantaire had excused himself to use the restroom and when he returned, Marius was passed out, laying down on the empty barstools.

Grantaire face-palmed. He should have known better than to buy Marius so much wine. He was basically infamous for being the biggest light-weight in France.

“Seems he’s had a tough day.”

Grantaire turned around to see Enjolras standing behind him, looking down at Marius with a distinct look of disapproval.

“He’s young and in love,” Grantaire said, wishing right now that he was the one passed out on the bar and not conscious enough to be suffering from a horrible case of unrequited love.

“We should probably wake him up,” Enjolras suggested, without making a move.

“Sure,” Grantaire agreed. He prodded Marius’s stomach with his hand. Marius didn’t even stir.

“Marius!” Enjolras called. Again, nothing.

Grantaire grabbed a pitcher of water from the bar. Having been woken up a few times like this himself, he knew a splash of water on the face was certain to bring Marius back to the world of the living.

He made to spill the pitcher over Marius’s face when Enjolras grabbed him by the wrist, stopping him. Grantaire looked down to where Enjolras was touching him.

“Wait,” Enjolras said, “seriously?”

“It works,” Grantaire said, unable to concentrate with Enjolras only a few inches away from holding his hand.

“Well, I guess you would know,” Enjolras tried for disdain, but he didn’t muster his usual tone of disgust.

“Uh,” Grantaire began stupidly, his gaze falling to where Enjolras was still gripping his wrist.

“Sorry,” Enjolras pulled his hand back like he’d been touching fire.

Grantaire quickly poured the pitcher of water on top of Marius, who spluttered and jumped up from the barstools, losing his balance and falling over.

“What!” he said, slurring, “what is it!”

“Marius,” Enjolras said, “you’re drunk, go home.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes at Enjolras’s complete lack of empathy for the drunk and heartbroken. He kneeled down to where Marius was on the floor, looking lost.

“You had a little too much to drink,” Grantaire started, “and by a little, I mean a lot. You had a lot to drink. Let’s get you home.”

“Sure,” Marius said, “Cosette is moving to England….”

Grantaire helped Marius up, almost completely supporting his weight. Grantaire had to lean against one of the barstools to keep from falling over.

“Where do you live?” Grantaire asked, louder than necessary. Marius was once again showing signs of drifting off.

“Cosette….England….” his eyelids were closing, heavy with drink and sleep.

“I know where he lives,” Enjolras said, “I’ll take you there.”

Enjolras supported the other side of Marius and together, he and Grantaire helped their friend, carrying him slowly down the dark streets of Paris.

At this point Marius was basically passed out again, and Grantaire was frantic to think of some kind of conversation that would make Enjolras take him seriously as a person. He knew that Enjolras thought of him as simply a useless drunk, and Grantaire did little to prove himself otherwise. But now, he and Enjolras were alone, and this was his chance.

“So,” Grantaire began, “the protest tomorrow.” If he was being honest, he had totally forgotten where the protest even was.

“What about it?” Enjolras asked.

“Seems like it’ll be…” Grantaire struggled for something intelligent to say, “…good. You know, for the cause.”

Enjolras scoffed. “You don’t believe in the cause.”

“I will be there anyway,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras looked him in the eyes then, over Marius’s unconscious body, and said, simply,

“We’re here.” He pointed to the building in front of them. It was a small apartment complex with three doors, side by side. Enjolras led them to the middle door and rang the bell. It was several moments before they heard movement on the other side.

Courfeyrac opened the door, his hair tousled from sleep.

He looked confused until his eyes landed on Marius and then he let out a short laugh.

“Guess you guys had a good time,” he said, opening the door wider, allowing them to carry Marius in and throw him unceremoniously onto a bed.

“You could say that,” Grantaire answered.

“Well, thanks for bringing him home,” Courfeyrac said, “I’ll see you both at the protest tomorrow.”

“Right,” Enjolras said, “don’t forget the pamphlets.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, “I won’t forget the pamphlets, Enj.”

Enjolras and Grantaire exited the apartment and stood for a moment together on the street. There was a single street lamp creating a pool of light around them, and Grantaire wondered for a moment what the world would be like if it were only the two of them. If anything, Enjolras would have no choice but to talk to him.

“Well,” Enjolras said, looking down, “I guess I will see you tomorrow.”

“I guess you will,” Grantaire said, smiling. He couldn’t help it – this shy, awkward Enjolras was such a rare sight he didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of it.

“Goodbye, then,” Enjolras said, and abruptly turned away.

“How do you know we’re not going the same direction, Apollo?” Grantaire called after him, unable to keep the teasing tone from his voice. He could never manage to be serious around Enjolras.

“Are we?” Enjolras turned around, raising an eyebrow. He had a look of exasperation on his face, like he knew Grantaire was just messing with him.

“No,” Grantaire admitted and then added, quieter, “I don’t think we’ll ever be.”

Grantaire all of a sudden wished he had a bottle of wine in his hands and thought longingly of the one he had waiting for him back in his dilapidated apartment. “Goodnight, Apollo.”

“Goodnight, Grantaire.”

Grantaire watched Enjolras disappear into the darkness before making his way slowly back to his own apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

The day began as every day began for Grantaire, with a pounding hangover and thoughts full of Enjolras. He slowly made his way out of bed and over to the cabinet where his bottles of wine were stored. He grabbed one and took a long drink before getting dressed, gathering Enjolras’s stupid pamphlets, and making his way to the Café Musain, bottle in hand.

When he arrived, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Marius (who looked as though he’d spent the morning throwing up), Joly, and Enjolras were already gathered around a table. Enjolras was talking passionately about their goals for the day.

“Sorry I’m late,” Grantaire said loudly, inserting himself between Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

Enjolras looked over at him, an expression of disbelief on his face.

“What?” Grantaire asked, “you honestly didn’t think I’d come?”

“No,” Enjolras admitted.

“I said I would. I’d do anything for you,” Grantaire said, and realizing he was probably sharing too much, looked down at the pamphlets in his hand. “I brought these.”

“Good,” Enjolras said, and then turned back to address the group, “Our goal is to sympathize with the needs of the factory workers and get them to join our revolution.”

“ _Vive le Republique!_ ” Grantaire called out.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre laughed a little at Grantaire’s random exuberance but Enjolras ignored him.

The _amis_ left the Café Musain and made their way down to the _Montreuil-sur-Mer_ Factory.

When they arrived, they were greeted with odd glances from the workers, who were probably wondering where a group of entitled rich kids got off lecturing them about how exactly they should go about gaining freedom from an oppressive government.

The group split up in order to solicit the most people possible. They wanted to be quick to avoid the attention of the National Guard.

Grantaire wandered over to two women who were sitting at a table, crushing glass to make beads.

“Hello, ladies,” Grantaire said, trying to turn on the charm. They glanced at each other before looking up at him.

“Can we help you?” one of them said, with a tone that implied she wished Grantaire would leave her alone.

“I’m here to talk to you about the revolution,” Grantaire said, passing a pamphlet to each of them, “in a few months time, we’re going up against the National Guard and making a stand for freedom.”

The two women eyed Grantaire skeptically. Grantaire assumed he came off sounding as unconvinced as he actually was, despite trying his best to emulate one of Enjolras’s speeches.

“How many people do you have for your ‘revolution’?” the woman asked, pronouncing the word as though it were some sort of disease.

“Uh, about nine,” Grantaire admitted, thinking about the _amis_.

“Do you know how many the National Guard has? At least thirty thousand,” she said.

“Listen,” Grantaire said, losing his patience, “I agree with you. We don’t stand a chance. But we have to believe.”

“In what?” she asked. Grantaire wondered if Enjolras felt this same frustration trying to talk with him during meetings. Suddenly a deafening shot rang out, causing Grantaire and the women to stand up from their chairs, frantic, looking for the source of the shot.

“Police!” he heard a voice yell, it sounded like Courfeyrac but he couldn’t be sure. Suddenly, all the factory’s workers were up, hysterically trying to gather their things and get out as fast as possible. He guessed no one really wanted to be caught on the wrong end of a police raid. Grantaire attempted to push through the crowd, trying to find any of the _amis._ He heard another shot, followed by more screaming.

“Grantaire!” someone grabbed his arm. Grantaire turned and saw Enjolras, his bright blue eyes shining with distress. “We need to find the others.”

Enjolras grabbed his hand and led him through the crowd, all the while calling out for the other _amis_. Grantaire didn’t even have time to feel excited about Enjolras voluntarily touching him twice in the span of twenty-four hours as he caught sight of the police officers headed their way, guns in hand.

He recognized the officer at the front of the gang – it was Javert, the lead inspector of the Parisian police force. 

“Stand down,” Javert said. He was speaking to Enjolras; there were at least five guns aimed at him.

Enjolras didn’t back down, he didn’t even look afraid.

“The revolution is coming, Inspector,” Enjolras said. He sounded dangerous, more like a Greek god than ever. Grantaire noticed with a start that they were still holding hands. “We will have freedom. The people will rise.”

“I don’t think they will,” Javert said, slowly, “Not without their leader.”

Javert made a slight nod with his head, and Grantaire knew what was coming. He had barely opened his mouth to shout a warning when the police opened fire on them. The sound of gunshots filled the air and Grantaire fell to the ground, his ears ringing, and a sharp burning sensation in his side. He could hear voices screaming through the deafening fog that had invaded his senses, and even though his vision was fading out, and he was starting to lose consciousness, he could make out the _amis_ calling his name. And Enjolras’s.

Grantaire gripped his side, feeling blood run through his fingers. He turned himself over to crawl towards Enjolras, who had fallen next to him. He no longer cared about the police, about the _amis_ , about anyone else in the world. He saw Enjolras, laying there, eyes closed, blood covering his chest. He saw bullet holes littering Enjolras’s red coat.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, taking his hand. His voice came out croaked and it hurt to breathe.

“Enjolras,” he repeated, coughing. Enjolras’s hand was cold, and he wasn’t moving. Grantaire saw Combeferre and Joly rush over.

“Were you hit?” Joly asked. His voice was high, thick with worry.

Grantaire did not register the question.

“Please,” Grantaire begged, still holding onto Enjolras, “help him.”

Combeferre placed a hand on Enjolras’s chest; it was wet with blood when he lifted it away.

“We need to get to a hospital,” Joly’s voice said, but Grantaire could barely hear him. The edges of his vision were fading fast into blackness and the last thing he saw was Enjolras lying there, motionless. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire opened his eyes and Enjolras was there, bathed in the golden light from the street lamp above them. They were standing outside of Marius’s apartment. Enjolras was holding both of his hands.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asked.

“What’s tomorrow again?” Grantaire’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. His vision was blurry and it felt like he was floating. Enjolras smiled at him and said,

“You said you’d do anything for me.” He paused. “Did you mean it?”

“Of course I meant it,” Grantaire blinked. There were tears in his eyes. “I would die for you, Enjolras.”

Grantaire felt lethargic. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He sat down on the sidewalk and wondered how much he’d had to drink. Enjolras sat down next to him, and turned his face up towards the sky.

Grantaire felt a sudden pain in his side.

“Jesus—” he cursed, standing up, watching blood drip down his shirt. “How—?”

“Grantaire,” a voice said. The world was becoming brighter and brighter. His head was about to explode.

“Grantaire!”

His eyes flew open and he found himself laying in bed, with several faces looking down at him.

“He’s awake!” a voice said, with an audible sigh of relief, “thank god, he’s awake.”

“Where—?” Grantaire began, but his throat burned and he couldn’t finish.

“Here, drink this,” Combeferre appeared from the hallway carrying a glass of water. Grantaire accepted it gratefully, drinking in large sips until it was taken away.

“Not so much, you’ll be sick,” Grantaire recognized Joly standing at his bedside.

“What happened?” Grantaire managed.

“You were shot,” Combeferre explained.

“It was close,” Joly said, “but they were able to remove the bullet. You should be able to leave in a few days, if everything goes well.”

Grantaire looked at his friends unbelievingly. Shot? How? Where?

“I don’t understand,” Grantaire said and then realized who was missing. “Where’s Enjolras? He didn’t come to cry at my bedside?”

Grantaire meant for it to be a joke but was unprepared for the look of distress that passed over his friend’s faces. To their credit, they either quickly tried to disguise the look or turn away.

“What?” Grantaire asked, “what happened?”

“Just rest,” said Joly, producing a hypodermic needle from thin air, “you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Wait, stop—” Grantaire tried to push away the needle, but Joly simply held his hand still. Grantaire was too weak to resist.

“Trust me, this will help you,” Joly said, inserting the needle into his arm. Within moments Grantaire fell into a dreamless sleep.

He woke up the next morning feeling much more human. Although his side ached slightly and he had a killer headache, he no longer felt so dissociated.

He remembered how he’d been shot. They were passing out pamphlets at some factory and the police had shown up. They’d gone after Enjolras, and Grantaire had stood beside him. They’d held hands, and they’d been shot together.

Grantaire wondered how Enjolras’s recovery was going. He wished someone would come into the room so he could ask.

It wasn’t long before Grantaire’s wish came true and Marius entered the room, looking much better than the last time Grantaire had seen him, which wasn’t exactly saying much.

“You look good,” Marius said, sitting on the chair beside his bed.

“You too,” Grantaire said, trying for a smile but grimacing at the pain from his cracked lips. “Considering you’re no longer puking all over the café.”

“I didn’t puke!” Marius said, scandalized. He paused for a moment before continuing, “I wanted to tell you that I talked with Cosette. We’re leaving France together, tomorrow.”

“That’s sudden,” Grantaire said. “Didn’t you only just meet her?”

“You’re the one who said life isn’t worth living without that special someone,” Marius countered.  Grantaire once again thought of Enjolras.

“I guess so,” Grantaire said, “well, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” said Marius, “I’ll write, when I’m in England. And I wish you a fast recovery.” He got up to leave and was almost to the door when Grantaire spoke.

“Wait,” he said, “you wouldn’t happen to know how Enjolras is doing, would you?”

Marius visibly paled. “Uh,” he stuttered, avoiding eye contact, “you’d have to ask Joly about that.” Marius all but ran from the room.

Grantaire couldn’t help the pit of fear growing inside of him. Why hadn’t anyone mentioned Enjolras? It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Enjolras was their leader, he was the god Apollo incarnate, and he was the only person that made Grantaire’s life worth living.

Grantaire couldn’t remember falling asleep but when he awoke, the room was dark. There was a bluish tint coming from the open window to the right side of his bed, indicating that it was either very late or very early. Grantaire yawned, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“You’re awake,” a voice said. Grantaire nearly jumped out of his bed in fright. He looked over to see a figure sitting in the chair beside his bed. It was Enjolras. Enjolras was alive, and visiting him. In the middle of the night.

 _Thank god, thank god, thank god_ , Grantaire thought, unable to keep the smile from his face.

“Enjoying watching me sleep, Apollo?”

Although Grantaire could barely make out Enjolras’s face, he could practically hear the eye roll.

“Just making sure you were okay,” he said, “you need to get better. We have a revolution to win.”

“Ah, Apollo,” Grantaire said, waving his hand dismissively in the air, “always concerned for the greater good.”

“You were a hero, you know,” Enjolras said, and he took Grantaire’s hand in his own. “You were ready to die for the cause.”

Grantaire thought that he might go crazy from all this hand holding they were doing lately.

“I was ready to die for you,” Grantaire corrected.

“Whatever it was,” Enjolras smiled, “it was amazing.”

Grantaire felt high. He wondered how many drugs Joly had given him. “You’re amazing.” He said, and he couldn’t stop smiling. Enjolras was going to think he was mental.

“Go to sleep, R,” Enjolras said, and walked out of the room.

That was the first time Grantaire had ever heard Enjolras refer to him by that nickname. He was still smiling as he fell back asleep.

The next time Grantaire awoke, the sun was shining through the window and Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Joly were all standing over the bed.

“You all look entirely too pleased with yourselves,” Grantaire commented, because it was true.

“You can leave today,” Joly said, “the doctor said it was okay. Just try walking around the room a little first.”

Grantaire couldn’t remember ever seeing this supposed doctor once, but he had to admit that he was eager to get out of the hospital. He was also eager to see Enjolras again. Grantaire hesitantly made his way out of bed, and gripped the mattress for support, pushing himself into a standing position. He hadn’t taken more than a step before he fell back into the bed, his legs weak from disuse.

Joly laughed, “Just keep trying.”

Grantaire attempted to glare at him.

“Also,” Courfeyrac said, as Grantaire took tentative steps away from the bed, “Marius is moving out, so you’re welcome to stay with me. I think it would be good, you know, if you weren’t alone right now.”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asked.

“You know, everything that’s happened,” Courfeyrac began, uncomfortable, “and you might still need help with your injury.”

“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” Joly interjected, “I know several people who died from infections caused by hospitals.”

Grantaire just stared at him, “Not really helping, Joly.”

He paced around the room for a while longer before sitting back down on the bed. Finally he asked, “Is Enjolras leaving today too?”

Grantaire didn’t think he’d ever seen his friends look so lost.

“No,” Joly said, “Enjolras isn’t leaving today.”

“Why not?” Grantaire asked, “what’s wrong with him? He seemed fine last night.”

“Last night?” Courfeyrac said, his eyes wide.

“Enjolras visited me. He seemed fine,” Grantaire explained. His friends were looking at him like they’d seen a ghost.

“You were dreaming,” Joly explained, “I’m sorry, Grantaire – Enjolras is dead.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was dark before Grantaire could gather the strength to leave the hospital and head to his new, temporary home at Courfeyrac’s. He wanted to feel gratitude towards his friends. They had taken care of him, they saved his life, and now they were letting him stay with them so that he wouldn’t have to go home alone to his shithole apartment.

Still, he couldn’t help but hold certain resentment towards them. Why did they insist that Enjolras was dead? Grantaire had seen him, he’d spoken to him.

 _You were delirious_ , Grantaire told himself, as they approached the apartment, _you dreamt it._

Even as Grantaire tried to tell himself that this had to be the truth, that his friends didn’t have any reason to lie to him, he was still faced with the impossibility of the situation. If he’d been dreaming and his friends were right, then Enjolras was dead. And Enjolras couldn’t be dead. Grantaire couldn’t be living if Enjolras was dead.

“Here,” Courfeyrac said, pulling out his keys to unlock the door. “I hope Marius moved all of his stuff out…”

The _amis_ entered the apartment and Grantaire stepped numbly into the room that Courfeyrac pointed out as his. They left him alone, walking back into the hallway.

“Will he be okay?” Grantaire heard Combeferre ask. They were talking in soft voices, obviously hoping that Grantaire wouldn’t hear them, but the apartment was small and he couldn’t help it.

“He will be,” Courfeyrac said, with a sense of certainty that Grantaire could never muster up himself, “He needs to deal with this. Go through the stages of grief and all that.”

“Let us know if you need anything,” Joly said. Grantaire heard the door open, and assumed that Joly and Combeferre had left.

Grantaire looked around the room. He remembered being in here with Enjolras, dropping off a drunken Marius. That felt like a lifetime ago.

Grantaire didn’t have many possessions with him, only what his friends had brought for him at the hospital. He would have to go to his apartment and pack some more clothes. He suddenly felt very tired. He wished Enjolras would stop by. He wanted to grab his hand again and scream, _look, he’s alive, he’s alive._

Grantaire laid down on the bed, not bothering to get beneath the covers. He closed his eyes and thought about Enjolras.

When he awoke the next morning, he felt more alive than he had since he’d first woken up in the hospital. He had dreamt about Greek gods and gold hair and Enjolras holding his hand. Grantaire heard voices coming from the living room and wandered out of bed. He saw Combeferre, Joly, and Courfeyrac sitting on the couch, talking.

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said, “good morning.”

“Good morning,” Grantaire greeted.

“We are going into the market today,” Combeferre said, “would you like to join?”

Although Grantaire did fancy getting some air, the marketplace was always crowded and he wasn’t ready yet to be around so many people.

“I think I’ll stay here,” he said, “maybe go for a walk later.”

“Okay,” said Courfeyrac, crossing the room to stand in front of Grantaire, “we won’t be gone long.”

With that, the three _amis_ left the apartment, leaving a sudden silence in their wake.

Grantaire walked back into his room, fully intent on taking a walk. He felt as though he’d been trapped inside for weeks, be it in the hospital or Courfeyrac’s apartment. He was digging through the few articles of clothing that had been brought for him when he heard a loud knocking.

Grantaire made his way briskly to the door, wondering who would be calling on Courfeyrac. He opened it to reveal Enjolras. He was dressed in his red coat and his hair was lit up by the sun. His blue eyes were staring straight into Grantaire’s, and he smiled.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras said, moving into the apartment, “You live here now?”

“Courfeyrac’s letting me stay,” Grantaire explained, “until I’m properly healed.”

“That’s nice of him,” Enjolras said, sitting on the couch, “he’s not here?”

Grantaire wondered how many times Enjolras had been over here that he felt comfortable just sitting on the furniture without being invited. He remembered that Enjolras had been the one to show him where Marius lived.

“He went to the market,” Grantaire said, sitting on the sofa next to Enjolras.

“Well then,” Enjolras began, “I’m counting on you to carry on the message. We’re having a meeting tonight, to discuss our next protest.”

Grantaire hesitated. He wanted to explain that the other _amis_ thought Enjolras was dead.

Enjolras misinterpreted Grantaire’s reluctance,

“I know, you were badly hurt on our last protest,” Enjolras said, and his eyes filled with sadness that Grantaire would not have thought him capable of feeling.

 _He’s sad because I got hurt_ , Grantaire thought, and that made him smile. Maybe Enjolras did care.

“Our next protest will be better planned,” Enjolras said, in his best convincing tone. As though Grantaire ever needed any convincing to follow his Apollo. “We’ll avoid the attention of the National Guard.”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, “of course I’ll pass on the message.”

Enjolras looked surprised at how amiable Grantaire was being, and honestly, Grantaire was a little shocked himself.

“Well, thank you,” Enjolras said, and made to leave.

Grantaire followed him to the door. “See you, Apollo.”

Enjolras turned around, and Grantaire saw then that his body was covered in bullet holes. Enjolras coughed and a small trickle of blood ran from his mouth.

Grantaire blinked, and the blood was gone.

 _Christ, pull it together_ , he told himself.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asked. He was smiling.

“Fine, Apollo,” Grantaire said, but he was suddenly afraid to meet Enjolras’s eyes.

“I’ve told you,” Enjolras said, stepping outside, “to stop calling me Apollo.”

Grantaire closed the door behind him.

It felt like hours before Courfeyrac returned to the apartment, though it wasn’t yet dark. Grantaire was still shaken up from his encounter with Enjolras, but chalked it up to the lingering effects of getting shot. It was a traumatic experience, Enjolras had been there, and of course there would be a few negative psychological consequences. It was perfectly normal, nothing to be concerned over. More than anything, he now knew that Enjolras was alive.

Courfeyrac knocked gently on Grantaire’s door before opening it.

“How was the market?” Grantaire asked.

“Busy,” Courfeyrac said, looking hesitant. Grantaire remembered the message that he was meant to pass along.

“There’s a meeting at the Café Musain tonight,” he said.

“Sorry?” Courfeyrac said, looking nervous.

“Enjolras stopped by earlier, after you left,” Grantaire explained, “he said there was a meeting tonight.”

Courfeyrac entered the room and sat on the bed next to Grantaire. His face was distinctly pale and Grantaire wondered if he was getting sick. That would explain why he was acting so strangely.

“Grantaire, tonight is Enjolras’s funeral,” Courfeyrac said finally, “and I think you should go. It will be good for you, to get some closure.”

Grantaire stared blankly at Courfeyrac. He didn’t understand why his friends were doing this to him. He knew Enjolras was alive, he’d seen him with his own eyes. He’d talked with him, made plans with him. Why did they insist on keeping up this façade?

“Enjolras’s death was horrible for all of us,” Courfeyrac said, “he was our friend—”                    

“Shut up,” Grantaire shouted suddenly, his voice harsh. “Just shut up. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but stop.”

“Stop what?” Courfeyrac said, his eyes wide. He looked scared.

“I know Enjolras is alive. I spoke with him today. I’m going to the Café Musain tonight.”

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac started, he looked utterly hopeless. “Please, come to the funeral. Enjolras would have wanted you there.”

“So much the worse for Enjolras, then,” Grantaire stood up abruptly and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

The air was chilly as Grantaire walked the streets towards the café, but he was too livid to feel the cold. When he reached the café, he pushed open the door with more force than necessary, earning a few pointed glances as the door swung open and hit hard against the wall.

Grantaire muttered an apology before making his way to the back of the establishment, where the meetings were held. He did his best to ignore the feeling of dread that bloomed within him upon seeing that it was deserted.  

 _Enjolras is just late_ , Grantaire told himself. But Enjolras was never late.

“Or maybe he’s at his funeral,” Grantaire said, letting out a bitter laugh. He realized too late that he was, in fact, talking and laughing to himself, and headed over to the bar to order a drink, wondering how his life had managed to become even more fucked up than before.

He was just finishing his second bottle and ordering another when he finally admitted to himself that Enjolras wasn’t coming. He took the third bottle from the bartender, and headed to the back of the room, sitting amongst the empty chairs and empty tables.

“To you, Apollo,” Grantaire said, toasting the air, and taking a long drink from the bottle. He felt tears forming in his eyes and couldn’t understand why he was crying. So Enjolras called off the meeting. So his friends were lying to him. Enjolras was alive, he was still as passionate as ever about the revolution, and if that was so, then Grantaire still had a purpose.

He finished his third bottle of wine and left the café, bristling against the cold wind as it whipped around him.

After about a half hour of walking he realized that he had no idea where he was going. His thoughts were scattered. He tried to recall how he had gotten to Courfeyrac’s before, but could only remember the way that Enjolras had looked at him over Marius’s body. He thought of Enjolras calling him a hero. The wind was picking up and Grantaire thought he might lose his mind from the cold. He crept into a side alley, and sat down against the wall, curling in on himself. He closed his eyes and hoped to fall into a warm, intoxicated sleep.

He hadn’t closed his eyes for more than a minute before he felt someone shaking him awake. Grantaire looked up blearily to see Enjolras standing above him, still wearing that ridiculous red coat.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire managed, though his throat was sore from too much wine, “nice of you to finally show up.”

“My apologies,” Enjolras said, kneeling across from Grantaire, “I should have told you I’d be missing the meeting.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered,” Grantaire said, “no one showed up. Everyone was at your funeral.”

“So you drank yourself into a stupor, is that it?” Enjolras questioned. He didn’t seem angry, just concerned. Grantaire wondered how he’d never noticed before how troubled Enjolras seemed over him. Most of all, he wondered why Enjolras didn’t think it was strange that the other _amis_ were at his funeral when he was very much alive.

“I wish you wouldn’t drink so much,” Enjolras continued, “I worry about you.”

“You know me,” Grantaire said, “plus, I got lost.”

Enjolras smiled softly, and stood up, reaching out a hand to help Grantaire.

“I’ll show you the way,” he said.

They walked in silence for a while, their fingertips occasionally brushing, before Grantaire finally spoke,

“Listen, Enjolras, something strange is going on,” he spoke quietly, like he was sharing some conspiracy. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Joly, they keep trying to convince me you’re dead.”

“They’re messing with you,” Enjolras said, shrugging.

“That’s a horrible thing to joke about,” Grantaire said, bitterly. “Everyone knows how I feel about you.”

They had reached Courfeyrac’s door, and stood once again under the lamp’s golden glow.

“Shall I tell them to stop?” Enjolras asked.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Grantaire said, “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re not,” Enjolras whispered, and he leaned in close, his mouth next to Grantaire’s ear, “you’ll see.”


	5. Chapter 5

Grantaire woke with a start the next morning. It was just barely dawn, and he struggled to remember the dream he’d been having, as it was fading away. He’d been walking with Enjolras, holding his hand. They were talking about death.

Grantaire remembered asking, “Are we in heaven?” And Enjolras had laughed and said he didn’t know Grantaire believed in heaven.

Grantaire remembered saying, “You could make me believe in anything.”

He remembered the way his Apollo looked standing next to him, staring into his eyes as though he was reading his mind.

Suddenly, Grantaire felt the urge to draw. When Grantaire was younger, before he’d grown so cynical and tired of life, he used to draw and paint quite frequently. Recently, however, he found very little that inspired him. This dream, though, begged recording. Grantaire never wanted to forget how beautiful Enjolras had looked, how like a god.

Grantaire crept into the living room, which was lit up a pale yellow by the rising sun shining through the window. He sifted through a few drawers before finding a blank piece of paper and a few pencils. Grantaire gathered them and took them back to his room. They weren’t exactly the quality of tools he was used to working with, back when he was more dedicated to art, but they were sufficient.

Grantaire set them out on his bed and began drawing, sketching the outline of Enjolras. Grantaire wished he had a way to color in Enjolras’s red coat.

The sun was fully up by the time Grantaire finished, and he only had a little more shading to do before the work was complete. Grantaire looked down at the drawing skeptically. Enjolras didn’t look the same as he had in the dream. Perhaps some beauty wasn’t meant to be replicated.

There was a knock on Grantaire’s door, pulling his attention away from the drawing.

“You awake?” It was Enjolras.

“Sure, come in,” Grantaire said, flipping over the drawing and sitting it next to him on the bed. The last thing he wanted was for Enjolras to think he spent all of his free time sketching pictures of him.

Enjolras walked in, looking every bit the angel from Grantaire’s dream. His drawing didn’t even come close to doing Enjolras justice.

“Is Courfeyrac awake?” Grantaire asked, as Enjolras entered the room and sat next to Grantaire.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “I talked to him about telling you I was dead. He said he’d stop.”

“I’m grateful,” Grantaire replied, still not entirely sure why Courfeyrac and the other _amis_ were telling him that to begin with.

“Were you drawing?” Enjolras asked, indicating the paper next to Grantaire.

 _So much for keeping it a secret_ , Grantaire thought, and slowly picked up the paper, flipping it over to show Enjolras.

“It sort of, came to me in a dream last night,” Grantaire tried to explain, realizing he’d just admitted to Enjolras that he dreamt about him, “it’s not very good.”

“On the contrary,” said Enjolras, taking the paper, “this is incredibly flattering.”

Grantaire couldn’t help the blush that colored his cheeks then. All of a sudden he very badly wanted a drink.

“Tell me about your dream,” Enjolras said, still looking at the paper.

“Uh,” Grantaire stuttered, “you were an angel. We were in heaven.” Grantaire cringed at how cheesy that sounded when spoken aloud.

“We were dead?” Enjolras questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“I guess so,” Grantaire said quietly. Yes, he very badly needed a drink.

“It isn’t time for us to die yet,” Enjolras said, seriously. “We have so much to accomplish.”

“Sure,” Grantaire agreed, and before Enjolras could go off on another save-the-world speech he quickly added, “I think I’m going to get a drink.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrow higher. “It’s noon,” he said, not bothering to keep the judgment from his voice.

Although previously Grantaire would have responded with a more flirtatious version of “go screw yourself”, he no longer wanted to see disappointment in Enjolras’s eyes.

“I meant, I’m going to get a drink of coffee,” he corrected.

 “Of course you did. I apologize,” Enjolras said, with a small smile.

“It’s okay, Apollo,” Grantaire said, “I know how little you think of me.”

Grantaire stood up then and started towards the kitchen, Enjolras following in his wake, still holding onto the picture that Grantaire had drawn.

“Good morning, R,” Courfeyrac greeted, as they entered the living room. He was sitting on the couch, reading a book.

“Morning,” Grantaire said, entering the kitchen and looking around. “We don’t have coffee?”

“No,” Courfeyrac responded, “I didn’t know you drank coffee.”

“I do now,” Grantaire said, dismally, “I’m making a positive change.”

Enjolras laughed, “Try to sound a little more convincing.”

Courfeyrac looked surprised, “Well, that’s good. There’s a place down the street that sells coffee.”

“Want to come with me?” Grantaire asked Enjolras, surprising himself. He totally just asked Enjolras out on a date.

“Sure,” Enjolras said. Grantaire could have leapt for joy if he wasn’t secretly wishing they were headed to a bar rather than a café.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Courfeyrac remarked.

“Good for you,” Grantaire said, before leading him and Enjolras out the door.

The morning air was cold, though not nearly as bitter as the previous night, when Enjolras had found a drunken Grantaire passed out on the street. Grantaire wanted to ask why the meeting had been cancelled. Instead he said,

“When I was shot, you were standing next to me. You must have been hurt.”

“I was,” Enjolras said, “I was in the hospital, same as you. We were lucky to have survived.”

“Yeah, we were,” Grantaire said, and he believed it. What were the chances of he and Enjolras surviving that? What were the chances of them being together now, when he was so sure before that Enjolras couldn’t stand him?

Grantaire saw a café in the distance. It looked classier than the Café Musain, and probably didn’t serve alcohol. Grantaire held the door open for Enjolras, and immediately wondered if that made him seem too presumptuous.

If Enjolras thought so, he didn’t comment. They went up to the counter and ordered two coffees, before sitting down at a small table by the window. They were facing each other and Grantaire couldn’t help but notice how their feet touched whenever one of them shifted.

Enjolras took a sip of his coffee. “So, we need to have a meeting tonight.”

“We had a meeting last night,” Grantaire said, staring down at his coffee like it was poison. “It was very productive. I planned the revolution myself.”

“I said I was sorry about that,” Enjolras said, exasperated.

“I discussed the protest at great length,” Grantaire continued, adding a few sugar packets to his beverage, “and came to the unanimous agreement that these protests are pointless, and that the government cannot be changed.”

Enjolras took another sip of his coffee, “It’s not unanimous if you were the only one who agreed.”

“I was the only one there,” Grantaire countered.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, “Still, we should include the other _amis_ in our decisions.”

Grantaire took a sip of his coffee, “This is disgusting.”

“You added too much sugar,” Enjolras explained.

“My hypochondria is setting in,” Grantaire said, leaning back in his chair and wishing he had a flask of whisky to dump into his coffee, “this will kill me.”

“You’ll be fine,” Enjolras laughed and leaned forward, “I need to head home and write up a few pamphlets before the meeting. Do you think you could tell the other _amis_ to meet tonight, around nine?”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, his heart was beating fast.

“Thank you, R,” Enjolras replied, and got up from the table, exiting the café.

Grantaire’s stomach felt unsettled, though he was unsure if it was because of the coffee or Enjolras’s newfound love for his nickname. After a few moments, Grantaire got up, threw his coffee away, and headed back to the apartment.

When he opened the door, he saw Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Joly on the couch, crowding over the book that Courfeyrac had been reading that morning.

“What’s that?” Grantaire asked, without going over.

“We’re planning the next protest,” Combeferre explained, “we’ve decided that we can’t let Enjolras’s dream die.”

“Good,” Grantaire said, “there’s a meeting tonight. Nine o’clock, at the Café Musain.”

Grantaire didn’t wait for a response before heading into his room and closing the door behind him.

He made a few more attempts at drawing Enjolras, but only succeeded in growing more and more frustrated at how impossible his Apollo was to capture. When the sun was almost completely set, the _amis_ knocked on his door and told him they were headed to the café.

Grantaire left his incomplete drawings scattered atop the bed, and went out to join them. They shuffled along in the awkward silence that seemed to be common among his friends recently. He wondered why they were so hesitant to talk to him.

Finally Combeferre broke the silence, “I think this is a good idea, going to the café.”

“Yeah,” Joly agreed, “all of our best ideas were made there.”

“Including the idea that got Enjolras and I shot,” Grantaire remarked, harshly. He immediately regretted saying anything, as the awkward silence once again descended upon the group. Not a moment too soon, they reached the café, where Enjolras was waiting for them in the back, stacks of pamphlets piled on the desk.

Grantaire took a seat, feeling odd without his usual bottle of wine. The other _amis_ sat next to him, looking up at Enjolras nervously.

“Need any help?” Courfeyrac asked, uncertainly.

“I can handle it, thank you,” Enjolras said, and he stood up on his usual chair, commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

“Now, friends,” Enjolras began, “our last protest was somewhat less than successful.” He looked down at Grantaire, his eyes once again brimming with sadness. Grantaire couldn’t help but feel important under that gaze. “But, we must live and learn from our mistakes. Our next protest will take place at a local brothel.”

Enjolras went on an entire speech about how prostitutes were mistreated and deserved freedom, and Grantaire pointed out that they were struggling enough as it was and probably wouldn’t want to help out a renegade group of revolutionaries, to which Enjolras responded that just because Grantaire didn’t believe in the cause didn’t mean that others wouldn’t.

Enjolras passed out the pamphlets and told the _amis_ to meet back at the café the next day at noon. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Joly, who’d remained oddly quiet during the meeting, left quickly after it was complete. Grantaire went over to Enjolras, who was organizing the few remaining papers on the desk. Enjolras looked up as he approached.

“I don’t want you to get hurt again,” Grantaire said, “I’m scared for you.”

“Don’t be,” Enjolras said, “we take care of each other, right?” He gave a reassuring smile, and Grantaire noticed that Enjolras’s nose was bleeding.

“You’re- you’re bleeding,” Grantaire said, and his voice was low.

Enjolras wiped absently at the blood, smearing bright red across his cheek. “It’s nothing. Go home, Grantaire. You need to be at your best tomorrow.”

Grantaire hadn’t noticed before how pale Enjolras looked. He wondered if he was getting enough sleep. The stress of leading a revolution couldn’t be good for his health.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” Grantaire said, before turning around and leaving the café, thinking how strange it was for him to be giving that kind of advice.

When he finally reached the apartment, making only a few wrong turns, Courfeyrac was waiting up for him, sitting on the couch.

“You were really great tonight,” he commented, as Grantaire walked past him, heading into his room.

“Really?” Grantaire questioned. He couldn’t remember if he’d said anything particularly great at the meeting, besides pointing out the obvious flaws in Enjolras’s impenetrable idealism.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac said, “I knew you had it in you. So did Enjolras.”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, feeling exhausted. He wondered back into this room and was about to fall into bed when he noticed that his blankets were covered in revolution pamphlets.

He pushed them onto the floor, wondering if that was Enjolras’s idea of a joke.


	6. Chapter 6

This time, Enjolras wasn’t an angel, but the Greek god Apollo himself. He wore his usual red coat, and he had dark green leaves sprinkled in his golden hair. He shone so brightly that Grantaire could hardly stand to look at him. He carried a bow and arrow.

“Are we in heaven?” Grantaire asked, again.

“I didn’t know you believed in heaven.” Apollo’s eyes glittered with amusement.

“You could make me believe in anything,” Grantaire said, and his eyes were downcast, staring at the dirt path below their feet.

“I wish,” Apollo began, “that we could be together.”

Grantaire’s stomach tied in knots. “It seems strange,” he’d remarked, “for a god to be wishing at all.”

He’d tried to lift his eyes up, to look at Enjolras then, but the world was abruptly dissolved by the sound of Courfeyrac knocking on his door, telling him that it was nearly noon and they needed to meet the other _amis_ at the café.

Grantaire swung himself out of bed, rubbing absently at his eyes. These vivid dreams occurred almost nightly ever since he’d gotten out of the hospital.

Unlike the others, however, this one did not threaten to slip away. In fact, Grantaire felt as though he’d been walking alongside Enjolras only moments ago.

Grantaire walked into the bathroom and splashed a little water on his face before meeting up with Courfeyrac and walking to the café.

When they arrived, the other _amis_ , and Enjolras, were already there, gathered around the desk.

The day that he and Enjolras were shot had begun the same way. Grantaire suddenly felt nauseous.

“Are you okay?” Courfeyrac asked, looking at him, worriedly.

“Fine,” Grantaire mumbled.

Enjolras looked up at them then, and smiled.

“Good,” he announced, “everyone’s here. We all know the goal for the day: to convince as many people as possible that a revolution will be in their best interests, and persuade them to join us for the rebellion in June.”

Enjolras walked over to Grantaire and said,

“Shall we, then?”

Grantaire just stared at him blankly, before nodding.

Enjolras laughed, “You look lost without your bottle of wine, R.”

There was the nickname again. Grantaire didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or concerned.

“I gave it up, remember?” he said, although he didn’t really plan on giving it up. He just hadn’t thought about it recently. Which, he admitted to himself, was odd; usually he couldn’t form a coherent thought without at least a glass of wine.

The _amis_ walked for nearly a half hour towards the brothel, Grantaire and Enjolras in the lead. The entire time Grantaire lamented that he and Enjolras were not holding hands. They’d been doing so much of it lately, and Grantaire missed it when they were not touching. Plus, he noticed that Enjolras still looked very pale. His face shown with sweat, like he was feverish. Grantaire wanted to say something, to ask Enjolras to please take better care of himself, but didn’t feel like it was his place. After all, Enjolras was a god and what was he, exactly? Just someone who’d stood next to Enjolras when he’d been shot. Someone who Enjolras now apparently felt guilty enough to be kind to.

Grantaire wanted to feel bitter, but could not. He would take anything Enjolras gave him and even that was more than he deserved.

“Thinking about the protest?” Enjolras’s voice called him away from his thoughts.

“What?” he blurted, wishing for once he could manage to say something coherent.

“You look deep in thought,” Enjolras said, “were you thinking about the protest?”

“When do I think of anything other than revolution, Apollo?” Grantaire tried for his usual sarcasm, but only succeeded in sounding tired.

“You look sick,” Enjolras commented, “are you getting enough sleep?”

Grantaire was about to retort that Enjolras was hardly one to be talking when Combeferre approached them asking,

“This is the place, right?” He was looking at Grantaire, and pointing to a gathering of women next to a small, dilapidated building near the docks.

“Yes,” Enjolras replied. “Now, split up, everyone, talk to as many people as possible, and then we’re getting out of here.”

Grantaire made to go off on his own when Enjolras grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.

“I think we should go together,” he said.

The other _amis_ were already headed towards the brothel and Grantaire wondered what exactly he meant by this. Did he not trust Grantaire alone? Was he worried for his safety?

“Of course, Apollo,” said Grantaire, “I am more than willing to assist you.”

Enjolras scoffed lightly, hardly an echo of the former scorn he’d used when dealing with Grantaire. “And take this,” he continued, handing him a small, black pistol.

Grantaire stared down at it, wondering who exactly Enjolras thought he would have to shoot. After his near-death experience, he hardly wanted any more contact with firearms.

“Hide it,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire tucked it under his shirt, feeling nervous.

They walked down to the docks together, approaching a group of women who were too thin and dirty. They stared anxiously at Enjolras and Grantaire before one of them spoke up, asking,

“What do you want? We don’t need any trouble from the police.”

“We’re not the police,” Enjolras said, putting on his best charming smile. Grantaire was pretty sure that wars would be fought over his Apollo’s smile, but the prostitutes did not seem too impressed.

“We’re revolutionaries,” Grantaire explained, “we want to overthrow the government and give the people freedom.”

“Impossible,” the woman remarked, shivering.

“It’s not,” Grantaire said, “we deserve to be free.”

He felt Enjolras shift closer to him and wondered how much more revolution talk it would take before Enjolras was holding his hand again.

Suddenly, a deep voice called over to them, “what’s going on here?”

Grantaire’s head whipped in the direction of the voice and he saw it had come from a police officer. The officer was alone, and looked uneasy. As he approached Grantaire and Enjolras, the women scattered. Grantaire couldn’t believe that this was happening again. Apparently the gift of subtlety was not something the _amis_ possessed.

“Protesting is illegal,” the officer said, “leave now, or I’ll have no choice but to arrest you.”

“How will you manage that?” Enjolras said, his voice was loud and carried across the docks. “You seem to be outnumbered.”

“I have the French government behind me, and the National Guard,” the officer said. Grantaire realized then that the officer was not carrying a weapon. Otherwise, it would have already been pointed at them.

Grantaire saw from the corner of his eye the other _amis_ rushing out of the building to see what the commotion was about. They stopped a few feet short upon seeing the officer, keeping a distance in case they would need to make a quick getaway.

“Get out of here,” the officer said, doing his best to sound intimidating, despite his evident fear.

“Grantaire,” he heard Enjolras whisper, “shoot him.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras incredulously, “he’s unarmed.”

“We must make an example,” Enjolras said, “the police cannot have total power over the people. Kill him.”

Grantaire gaped at the pure fire and hatred that he saw in Enjolras’s eyes. He took the gun out from underneath his shirt and pointed it at the officer. His eyes went wide.

“Jesus, Grantaire,” he heard Courfeyrac’s voice coming from the docks, “what’re you doing?”

The officer had his hands up, in surrender.

“Listen, let’s call this a misunderstanding,” the officer was frantic, sweat beading on his face, “let me go, and I won’t tell anyone about this.”

“Like we have any reason to trust you,” Enjolras commented in a cold voice, “the only value your life holds to me is its ability to serve as an example for the rest of the rotten corruption that calls itself the National Guard.”

He turned to Grantaire, and without looking him in the eyes ordered, “Kill him.”

Grantaire pulled the trigger. The gunshot rang thunderously throughout the dock and the officer fell to the ground, clutching his chest where the bullet had hit, blood running in rivers down his hands.

When Grantaire looked down, he didn’t see the officer at all, but Enjolras. Enjolras was lying there, clutching his chest, bleeding out from a series of gunshot wounds. Enjolras was dying.

Grantaire’s legs gave out and he fell to the ground.

“That was amazing,” he heard Enjolras say, “my hero.”

Courfeyrac, Joly, and Combeferre ran over, utter shock painting their faces.

“We have to get out of here,” Courfeyrac was saying, and his whole body was shaking. “Anyone could have heard that shot.”

Grantaire was yanked harshly from the ground, hurried away from the brothel and down the street before he was shoved violently into a side alley.

“What the hell was that?” Courfeyrac demanded, his previous nervousness all but completely replaced with anger.

“We needed to make an example,” Grantaire struggled to explain. He still felt weak, and he couldn’t get the image of Enjolras dying out of his mind. Where was Enjolras now?

“You just killed an unarmed man!” Combeferre exclaimed.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire muttered, “said we needed to make an example.”

“Grantaire, for the last time,” Combeferre said, and his voice was pained, “Enjolras is dead.”

“He’s not dead,” Grantaire shouted, and he was suddenly angry as well. “He gave the order, and I followed it. Enjolras is always right, he’s our leader.”

“This is our fault,” Joly commented, “We should have gotten you help.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, trying to slow the beating of his heart and concentrate on the words his friends were saying. They weren’t making any sense.

“You look sick,” Enjolras’s voice said. Grantaire’s eyes snapped open. He saw Courfeyrac standing over him, his face tight with worry. Enjolras was leaning over Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Tell them, Enjolras,” Grantaire pleaded, “tell them that this was for the greater good.”

Courfeyrac followed Grantaire’s gaze over his shoulder.

“It was,” Enjolras said, his voice was calm and he was smiling, “and I love you for it, R.”

Grantaire’s heart stopped.

“Grantaire, let’s take you back to the apartment,” he heard Joly’s voice, but it seemed to be coming from a distance. His mind was repeating _I love you I love you I love you._ Grantaire stood up, no longer caring about the dead officer. Enjolras was right, it was for the greater good. And Enjolras loved him.

“You’ll have to hope none of the girls from the brothel tell the National Guard your description,” Courfeyrac remarked, and his voice was heavy with anger. “If they put out a warrant for you, it’ll be dangerous for you to come with us.”

“Whatever,” Grantaire muttered. He couldn’t bring himself to worry about Courfeyrac and his ridiculous morality. They were staging a revolution for god’s sake, and he was worried about killing one officer?

“How many does he think will die in the rebellion?” Enjolras said, finishing Grantaire’s thought.

Grantaire smiled at him.

“Or maybe that’s what you want,” Courfeyrac continued, pacing back and forth, the other _amis_ shooting nervous glances his way. “You never believed in the revolution. You only came along to pine over Enjolras. And now he’s gone and you still can’t help messing things up.”

Grantaire stared at Courfeyrac, shocked at the harsh words that were coming from his friend’s mouth. He walked over to Courfeyrac, balling his fists into his friend’s shirt, and throwing him off balance.

“What—” Courfeyrac started, surprised by Grantaire’s sudden display of violence.

“Enjolras loves me for what I did,” Grantaire said, keeping his voice low, “So you can say whatever you want.”

“Enjolras died without ever loving you, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said, spitting his harsh words, and pushing Grantaire off of him.

“That’s enough,” Joly said, coming between the two of them. “You’re both stressed out and saying things you don’t mean. Stress can have deadly consequences; you both need to calm down before you over-exert yourselves.”

“I am calm,” Grantaire said, but his heart and mind were racing. “I’m going home.”

Grantaire set off in the direction of his apartment, which had remained unused since he’d been shot. He was sure the place was probably an utter mess, but he couldn’t stand being around Courfeyrac after the things he’d said. His friends clearly resented his happiness. They were so self-righteous, so disillusioned.

He heard footsteps running to catch up with him, and turned around, fully prepared to give Courfeyrac a piece of his mind. To his surprise, it was Enjolras who ran to his side.

“He didn’t mean it,” Enjolras said quickly, his face was flushed from the cold wind, his nose and cheeks a bright pink.

“Sure he did,” Grantaire argued, “everyone thinks I’m useless. They’re right.”

“You’re not useless,” Enjolras said, “you proved that when you chose to die for the revolution. You proved that today.”

“So I’m only as good as the cause I die for,” Grantaire remarked, bitterly.

“Our little lives don’t count at all,” Enjolras said, trying for a smile.

Finally, they reached the shabby apartment where Grantaire was staying prior to his brush with death.

“Do you, uh,” Grantaire stuttered, awkward and blushing, “want to come inside?”

Enjolras nodded his head, and followed Grantaire up the stairs and into his small apartment.

As predicted, the apartment was a complete disaster and smelled of mold and stale food. Grantaire quickly went to open a window, hoping Enjolras wouldn’t be too disgusted and decide to leave. Without thinking, Grantaire went to the cabinet and opened up a bottle of wine, taking a long drink before realizing what he was doing. He looked guiltily at Enjolras.

Enjolras was staring at him, his token eyebrow raised. “You had a hard day,” he shrugged.

“That I did,” Grantaire agreed, taking another swig.

The apartment was one room, with the bed directly across from the kitchen. Enjolras was sitting on the bed now, staring out the window.

“Come here,” he said, suddenly, breaking Grantaire out of his wine-induced daze.

Grantaire slowly approached the bed and sat next to Enjolras. Without warning, and with more force and confidence than Grantaire would have expected, Enjolras pushed him down and threw one of his legs over Grantaire’s waist, straddling him. He leaned forward, brushing Grantaire’s hair from his face, and brought their lips together.

Grantaire froze. He’d wanted this forever, since the first time he laid eyes on Enjolras.

He kissed Enjolras passionately, his initial surprise melting away into actions that were almost instinctual. He ran his hands through Enjolras’s soft, gold hair, feeling warm fingertips run across his chest, pushing under his shirt.

They broke apart, out of breath, lips red from kissing.

“I’m in heaven,” Grantaire said, practically giggling from elation.

“I thought you didn’t believe in heaven,” Enjolras remarked in a teasing tone.

He leaned down and trapped Grantaire in another crushing kiss before Grantaire could find the words to ask, _am I dreaming? Is this real, Enjolras?_


	7. Chapter 7

They were walking hand-in-hand through Paris, but it wasn’t the same. The cobblestone streets were cracked, turned up, and the buildings were crumbled, vegetation reaching through the windows and covering the vehicles left abandoned on the street. The air was cold, and there was a profound silence unlike anything Grantaire had ever experienced. They were ghosts strolling through a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras and remarked,

“It looks like the world has ended.”

“Perhaps it has,” Enjolras said.

He was carrying a red flag in his hand, the end of it dragging along behind them as they walked, turning a dark brown from the dirt on the street.

They reached the Café Musain, although Grantaire wasn’t sure he would have recognized it with his waking eye. The sign was all but worn off, and the door was boarded up. It looked like the roof had long ago caved in.

Enjolras coughed suddenly, doubling over as he struggled to catch his breath. Grantaire immediately had his arms around him, supporting him. When Enjolras removed his hand away from his mouth, it was covered in blood.

“Are you dying, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, reaching out to touch the side of Enjolras’s face, fingers tangling themselves in golden curls.

 Enjolras dropped the red flag and it billowed slightly in the wind before falling to the ground around their feet.

“I’m not afraid to die,” Enjolras said, leaning into Grantaire’s touch, “you shouldn’t worry so much. I’m not afraid.”

“My concern is entirely selfish, Apollo,” Grantaire explained, “I cannot live without you.”

Suddenly, Grantaire heard gunshots coming from the top window of the Café Musain. When he looked up, however, he was back in his room, in his bed.

He leapt up with a start, eyes falling on a small piece of paper resting on the pillow next to his head. It was from Enjolras.

 _That’s right,_ Grantaire recalled, _Enjolras stayed the night._

The note explained that Enjolras had a lovely time but needed to excuse himself in order to write up a few important pamphlets before their next meeting.

 _Typical Enjolras_ , Grantaire thought. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was incredibly wrong. He couldn’t remember what kissing Enjolras had felt like. He could barely remember the happiness he’d felt. He was beginning to wonder if he’d dreamt it all.

There was a hesitant knocking on the door, pulling Grantaire from his thoughts.

When he opened the door, he saw Courfeyrac standing there, looking the very image of guilt and nerves.

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said in a rushed voice, probably assuming that Grantaire was about to slam the door in his face. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I was so upset, and I took it out on you.”

He did not have energy to be angry at Courfeyrac. After all, most of what he said was true.

“All is forgiven,” Grantaire sighed.

“Joly, Combeferre, and I were talking last night. We want to show you something,” Courfeyrac said.

“What is this ‘something’?” Grantaire said, skeptically. It wasn’t like his friends to be so purposefully cryptic.

“Please, just come with me,” Courfeyrac pleaded.

Grantaire reluctantly grabbed his coat and went to join Courfeyrac as he left the apartment and began walking down the street. They were soon joined by the other _amis._

“Is anyone going to tell me where we’re going?” Grantaire asked, feeling left out.

Before any of the _amis_ could answer, it soon became apparent where they were headed. As they reached the outskirts of the city, the only structure for miles was a church, and behind it, a graveyard.

“I think it’s too late to save my soul,” Grantaire commented.

“We want you to visit Enjolras’s grave,” Combeferre said, earning anxious glances from his other two friends.

“This is ridiculous,” Grantaire said with a scoff that would have made Enjolras proud.

They walked across the path that led up to the church, before turning sharply right and leading into a large graveyard. It didn’t take long for them to come across a tombstone adorned simply with Enjolras’s name and two dates: _1810 – 1832._

There were flowers scattered around the stone, and Grantaire was remembering. He could see it as clear as day: He and Enjolras standing together, holding hands. The police inspector telling Enjolras to stand down. How beautiful Enjolras had looked, never more like Apollo. And finally, Enjolras bleeding on the floor, the light going out in his eyes.

 _No, that’s impossible_ , Grantaire thought, and fell to his knees at the foot of Enjolras’s headstone.

“Grantaire—”Courfeyrac said, but didn’t continue. It didn’t matter; there was nothing any of his friends could say to make this okay.

“The French Revolution began in 1789,” Grantaire looked up, blinking tears from his eyes. Enjolras was sitting atop the headstone, red coat bright in the sun, reading from a pamphlet.

“It laid the foundation for social reform in France,” Enjolras continued, “the people rebelled against the corrupt king, Louis XVI.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, his whole body shivering. When he opened them, Enjolras was still there, this time looking up from his pamphlet.

“It showed the government what the people are capable of,” Enjolras finished, and then asked, “What do you think, Grantaire? Convincing? I want to distribute these at the meeting tonight.”

Grantaire felt a hand on his shoulder, it was Courfeyrac.

“He was a great man,” he said, “we all miss him. We know how hard this is.”

Grantaire was openly sobbing now, he couldn’t stop. What was this? Why was this happening?

He looked up at Enjolras, his face shining with tears. “Please, tell me,” he begged, “are you real?”

His felt Courfeyrac go still behind him, removing his hand.

“Maybe it’s Enjolras’s spirit,” he heard Joly say.

“Not helping,” Combeferre muttered.

Enjolras knelt down beside Grantaire, putting his hand against his cheek.

“I’m right here with you, R,” he whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Grantaire broke down, grabbing onto Enjolras’s hand and touching their foreheads together.

“Please, I want to be alone,” he told the other _amis._

They were hesitant to leave Grantaire alone when he was so clearly broken, but finally decided that what Grantaire needed most was time to mourn properly.

“I love you,” Grantaire wept into Enjolras’s shirt and asked, “are we in heaven?”

Enjolras pulled Grantaire against his side, wrapping him up in his arms and said, “there’s no such thing.”

Grantaire stayed like that for a long time, crying into Enjolras’s chest.


	8. Chapter 8

It was late afternoon, and dark clouds were gathering over Grantaire. He stood up from the grave, his whole body sore from crying. Enjolras was next to him, giving an encouraging smile.

Grantaire wanted to speak to the _amis_. They knew something was wrong with him, and he was beginning to realize it as well. He could see Enjolras before him, and yet Enjolras was buried in the ground under Grantaire’s feet.

He started walking to the Café Musain, certain that his friends would be there.

“You never told me what you thought of the pamphlets,” Enjolras remarked, walking alongside Grantaire. Although they weren’t holding hands, Grantaire didn’t feel the pang of regret usually associated with missing an opportunity to touch Enjolras.

 _That’s not Enjolras_ , Grantaire told himself, _Enjolras is rotting in the ground._

Grantaire shuddered.

“They were perfect, Apollo,” Grantaire answered, suddenly conscious that he might really be talking to himself. “Just like everything you do.”

Enjolras gave a small laugh. “You flatter me, Grantaire.”

They reached the Café Musain, and wandered into the back. Grantaire was pleased to find that all the _amis_ were there, plus Marius. Grantaire wondered when Marius had come back from England.

“Grantaire,” Marius greeted, “you look well.” His cautious tone implied that the other _amis_ had most likely warned him about Grantaire’s recent break from reality.

“What brings you back from England?” Grantaire asked, trying to muster up some enthusiasm at seeing his friend again.

“Well, the rebellion, of course,” Marius said. “Cosette gave me her blessing to fight for the cause.”

“How kind of her,” Grantaire said, numbly. “But Enjolras is dead, who will lead the revolution?”

“Together, we can lead,” Courfeyrac said, stepping towards Grantaire, “you haven’t been so bad at it recently, either.”

Grantaire wanted to remark that Courfeyrac hadn’t seemed so impressed by his leadership yesterday, and that all he’d done was support Enjolras, but stopped when he realized that wasn’t even possible.

“Thankfully,” Combeferre said, stepping up, “Enjolras did take many notes about the rebellion, and ways we could accomplish it. He suggested making a barricade. We could ask the people to dedicate some furniture and build a wall.”

“Build a wall out of furniture,” Grantaire repeated, “If Enjolras was here, I would tell him that idea is stupid.”

“A barricade will give us something to hide behind,” Enjolras said, “and give us an advantage when we’re attacking.”

“There aren’t enough of us to man a barricade,” Grantaire argued.

“The people will rise,” Enjolras said, confidently.

“Enjolras was confident that the people would come to our aid,” Courfeyrac commented.

“Enjolras is dead,” but Grantaire was staring into Enjolras’s eyes. “I need a drink.” He wondered over to the bar, ordering a bottle of wine, while the other _amis_ discussed how they could go about collecting the amount of furniture necessary for an effective barricade.

He was almost finished the bottle when Enjolras approached, sitting hesitantly on the stool next to Grantaire.

“The barricade will work,” Enjolras said, “have faith.”

“You’re not even real,” Grantaire said, staring into his wine.

“Always so skeptical,” Enjolras said, and pulled Grantaire’s hand away from the bottle. “They have things handled here. Let’s go back to your place.”

Grantaire’s stomach dropped as he looked into Enjolras’s blue eyes.

 _This is your mind wishing,_ Grantaire thought, _he’s not real and you’re pathetic._

“Sure, Apollo,” Grantaire said, and he walked hand-in-hand with Enjolras to his apartment.

When they reached Grantaire’s home, he immediately went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine.

“What happened to the positive change?” Enjolras remarked.

“Enjolras will hardly know,” Grantaire said, and he walked over to the bed, pulling Enjolras roughly in for a kiss. It was desperate, hungry, and filled with a helpless longing. Grantaire ran his fingers through Enjolras’s hair as Enjolras fell back onto the bed, pulling Grantaire down on top of him. They broke apart, staring into each other’s eyes.

“Help me,” Grantaire pleaded, after they broke apart. “Help me, I’m losing my mind.”

Enjolras didn’t respond, just continued to kiss him, running his hands over Grantaire’s body.

“I love you,” Enjolras said, between harsh breaths, “I love you so much.”


	9. Chapter 9

When Grantaire woke the next morning, he was naked and his body was entwined with Enjolras’s. Grantaire struggled to untangle himself without waking him up, gently rising out of bed and getting dressed, grabbing a bottle of wine before heading out into the cold morning.

The sun was just barely above the horizon, and the streets were empty. Grantaire opened the bottle and began drinking. He was headed to the graveyard where Enjolras was buried.

The streets were thick with fog and as Grantaire turned the corner, he could barely make out the church though it was only a few feet away. It was a black silhouette peaking through the thick clouds. Grantaire continued walking, and drinking, and followed the path to Enjolras’s grave. When he reached it, he sat down, cross-legged, and drained the rest of the bottle.

“Enjolras,” he started. It felt strange to be talking without anyone there. Grantaire wanted to laugh at the irony of the situation. He’d been doing this for months and never noticed.

“Enjolras, I’m sorry,” he continued, “This shouldn’t have happened to you. It isn’t fair. You are the best person I know. You’re Apollo.”

Grantaire remembered how Enjolras had always disliked that nickname, and insisted that he stop using it. Grantaire thought it was adorable how Enjolras always believed that he was just like everyone else. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“I can’t live without you,” Grantaire said, and his eyes were filling up.

He paused. “Please, I want to die. I want to be with you.”

He broke down, then, unable to keep himself from sobbing. He was pathetic. He’d stood by while Enjolras had gotten shot and killed. He couldn’t keep it together to attend his funeral, living instead in a fantasy world where Enjolras held his hand, and kissed him, and loved him.

“But you never really loved me,” Grantaire said, his voice shaking, “how could you? I’m nothing.”

He stood up, then. This was Enjolras’s resting spot, and he was disgracing it by getting drunk and making a scene. Enjolras wouldn’t want that. He wouldn’t even want Grantaire here.

“I’m sorry, Apollo,” Grantaire finished, “I’m so sorry that you’re dead, and I’m alive.”

He walked slowly out of the graveyard, throwing aside the empty bottle.

The sun was not yet completely up and Grantaire headed to the Café Musain. He knew his eyes were red from crying, but he could no longer afford to feel any shame around his friends. They had seen him at his worst, and had still tried to help him. They were the kind of friends that Grantaire didn’t deserve.

When he approached the café, he noticed that the barricade was well on its way to completion. He saw Marius and Combeferre catching a small chair as it was thrown from a window, and walking over to add it to the wall.

“You work fast,” Grantaire called over.

Marius and Combeferre turned around as Grantaire approached.

“Are you okay?” Marius asked, confirming Grantaire’s belief that he looked every bit like someone who’d spent the morning crying.

“Fine,” Grantaire said, shortly. “Can I help?”

“Sure,” Combeferre said, seeming relieved. “We’re collecting furniture from the people right now and adding it to the barricades. There are three total.” He pointed to the locations, all surrounding the Café Musain, which Grantaire assumed was equivalent to their base camp.

“We also need to organize the weaponry, and pass out some pamphlets,” Marius said.

“Okay,” Grantaire said, and wondered into the café to collect the pamphlets. He picked one up, and scanned the first paragraph. It was the history of the French Revolution, meant to inspire the people to rise again.

Grantaire gathered them, and set out onto the street to talk with the people.

The day went by quickly, and Grantaire was able to pass out all of his pamphlets and organize the guns for the rebellion. He could hardly believe that it was happening tomorrow. What Enjolras had dedicated his life to, and had died for, was happening tomorrow, and Enjolras wasn’t even around to see it.

Grantaire solemnly walked out of the café to head home.

“Thank you for your help today,” Courfeyrac said. He was hanging a red flag from the top of the barricade.

Grantaire had seen that flag before, in a dream.

He fell asleep alone that night, and didn’t dream of Enjolras.


	10. Chapter 10

Grantaire once again awoke before the sun, and finished off an entire bottle of wine before making his way to the café. He saw the barricade piled high upon the street as he approached, and wondered if Enjolras would have been proud. The thought made Grantaire both angry and wretchedly depressed. Enjolras should be here, he should be leading them. Grantaire took a deep breath, trying to calm the beating of his heart. He couldn’t afford to fall apart today of all days. This was important. It was important for Enjolras.

Grantaire entered the Café Musain, assuming that he’d be the only one there at this early hour. To his surprise, the other _amis_ were gathered at the bar, sharing a bottle of wine. Grantaire went over to join them.

He heard Marius in the middle of a story,

“And then, we went for a walk through Hyde Park, which is a very famous park in London. Cosette was wearing a white dress, and she looked so beautiful…”

Combeferre looked up as Grantaire approached.

“Drink with us,” he said, passing the bottle to Grantaire. “Marius is just sharing a thrilling tale of a time he and Cosette walked through a park.”

Marius looked affronted by Combeferre’s sarcasm.

“If you’d seen how beautiful Cosette looked,” Marius continued, “you might be more interested in the story.”

“You’re better than an opera, Marius,” Grantaire commented, taking a drink from the bottle and passing it back to Combeferre.

Marius looked unsure whether or not Grantaire was making fun of him.

“So,” Courfeyrac said, and he sounded hesitant to break the previously carefree mood, “today is the day we fight for freedom. I think we should do one last inspection of the barricades before everyone arrives.”

The _amis_ slowly made their way out of the café to the three barricades. Grantaire was the last one to leave, and walked out into the dark morning, approaching the nearest one.

Enjolras was leaning against it, standing under the red flag that Courfeyrac had put up the previous night. Grantaire closed his eyes, willing himself into reality.

 _He’s not real, he’s not real,_ he repeated to himself. He opened his eyes and Enjolras was still standing there, clear as day.

“It’s an impressive barricade,” Enjolras remarked as Grantaire approached.

“Might’ve been better with your help, Apollo,” Grantaire responded, closing the distance between them. He reached out to touch Enjolras’s face. Enjolras smiled and leaned into the touch. But Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to smile.

“Are you nervous?” Enjolras asked. And yes, Grantaire was nervous. He was nervous standing this close to Enjolras, he was nervous knowing that Enjolras wasn’t really there. Grantaire had never been anything without Enjolras. He was a lost, cynical drunk who believed in nothing, and despised humanity. Now, he was leading a revolution for the people’s freedom. If Enjolras was alive, maybe he finally would have been proud of him.

“I’m sorry you had to die for this,” Grantaire said, taking Enjolras’s hands and wrapping both of his around them. “You didn’t deserve it.”

“I always planned to die for this,” Enjolras replied, with a sad smile.

Grantaire heard the other _amis_ approaching and pulled away from Enjolras. He wiped absently at his face, and was honestly surprised when he didn’t find tears there. He wondered if he was becoming adjusted, or emotionally numb.

“The barricades are all secured,” Courfeyrac said. “A few volunteers have arrived to help us.”

“How many is a few?” Grantaire said, with his usual skepticism.

“More will come,” Courfeyrac said, simply.

Although Grantaire never really believed that they had a chance at succeeding, he was now becoming more and more anxious. He wanted to win. He wanted to make a difference, for Enjolras.

“We’re in charge of this barricade,” said Combeferre, motioning to Joly, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire. “Marius and the rest will take the others.”

There was a long pause in which Grantaire assumed the _amis_ were contemplating the extent to which they seemed to be screwed, before Courfeyrac spoke up,

“Let us return to the café and see about the weaponry. The guard could be here any minute.”

Grantaire turned back to the barricade before leaving, but Enjolras was no longer there.

When they entered the Café Musain, Grantaire approached the bar and ordered another bottle of wine, before carrying it back to where everyone was organizing and cleaning the guns.

“Sure you should be drinking so much?” Joly commented.

“You sound like Enjolras,” Grantaire said, ignoring the way his friend flinched.

“I’m just saying,” Joly continued, eyes down, “alcohol can destroy your liver and kill you.”

“I probably won’t last the night,” Grantaire countered, “I can hardly spare a thought for the state of my liver.”

“Have faith,” Courfeyrac said, handing Grantaire a gun. It was small and black and Grantaire was certain it was the same one he’d used to kill that officer back at the brothel.

Grantaire took it without looking Courfeyrac in the eye, not wanting to relive his friend’s hatred and cruel words.

He sat down at one of the tables, looking at the gun in his lap. How many people would he have to kill tonight? How many of his friends would die? Grantaire wanted to run from this, he wanted to drink himself into oblivion and wake up when it was all over. He wanted to stand up on a chair, like Enjolras during one of their meetings, and yell, _this is pointless, we’re not going to win, we’re going to die and we’re not going to change anything._

And yet, a small part of him thought that maybe they had a chance. After all, Enjolras had believed, and Enjolras was perfect. Another part of him hoped that he would die, and sacrifice himself for the cause, just as Enjolras had done.

He finished his bottle of wine, and thought about ordering another when the _amis_ approached him.

“The sun is nearly up,” Courfeyrac said, “the National Guard will be here soon. We must get into position.”

Grantaire took one last look around the café, to the place where he’d first seen Enjolras, before following Courfeyrac.

The sun was just coming up, casting the barricade in a golden light. Grantaire stood atop it, next to Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Joly. Together, they saw the National Guard approaching.

Their army was massive. They were dressed in blue and red uniforms, and carried guns that looked far more impressive than the few that the _amis_ had managed to scrape together. Grantaire could see that they were pushing cannons along as well. Tension and fear hung heavy in the air.

As the National Guard approached, Grantaire heard Enjolras’s voice from behind him,

“I believe in you, Grantaire,” he said, “when tomorrow comes, we’ll be together.”

Grantaire didn’t turn around. He knew Enjolras wasn’t really there. He looked to his side and saw Courfeyrac aiming his weapon. Grantaire did the same.

As the National Guard came closer he heard one of the officers shouting a warning. He told them to stand down, to give up.

Grantaire could barely make out the words as the wind whipped around them.

“ _Vive le Republique!_ ” he shouted, and pulled the trigger, firing at the army. One of the officers fell, and the rest took aim, shooting in unison.

The _amis_ and Grantaire quickly ducked behind the barricade, as shots rang over their heads and smoke filled the air.

Grantaire hurried back over to send another shot at the guard. When he returned behind the barricade, he couldn’t find any of the _amis_ amongst the frantic groups of volunteers who’d come to help out. It was pure chaos.

Suddenly, Grantaire heard an officer shout, “Cannons!”

No sooner was this said then a cannonball was released and part of the barricade crumbled away before Grantaire’s eyes. He jumped out of the way as splinters broke off and flew into the air. He heard screaming, and gunshots, and tried to concentrate on getting back over the barricade.

He was running around the side of the café when he saw Inspector Javert. He was dressed in a navy coat and red hat, wearing the pin of the revolutionaries. He was sneaking around the barricade, obviously hoping to blend in and attack them from the inside. But Grantaire would have recognized his face anywhere. This was the man who had killed Enjolras.

Grantaire ran over to him and shoved him hard against the wall, holding his arm against Javert’s neck. Javert’s eyes widened. There was no one around to see them; everyone was distracted by the canons and the struggle to keep the barricade standing.

“Inspector,” Grantaire spat, holding his gun against Javert’s chest, “do you remember me?”

“You’re a traitor,” Javert said, struggling to breathe.

“You killed Enjolras,” Grantaire narrowed his eyes, “I am going to kill you.”

“Shoot me then,” Javert said, and his lack of fear made Grantaire want to bash his head in, “and death to every traitor.”

Grantaire shot Javert twice. He fell to the ground, clutching his stomach, and looked up at Grantaire.

“You’re going to fail,” the Inspector said, coughing on blood, smiling, “you’re going to die, just like your friend.”

Grantaire hit him over the head with the butt of his gun and then shot him six more times.

“Your fate has been decided, Javert,” he said, stepping around Javert’s body as it bled out into the street.

He was walking back to the café when Marius ran over, looking the very image of distress. He had blood trailing down his face. Grantaire noticed, then, that it was raining.

“Grantaire,” he said, “we’re the only barricade left.”

Grantaire looked at him, stunned. Surely that wasn’t possible, not so soon. Grantaire wiped wet hair from his face and took a deep breath.

“You’re bleeding,” Marius commented, his eyes wide with shock.

Grantaire looked down and noticed that his white shirt was splattered in Javert’s blood.

“It’s not mine,” Grantaire said, and then grabbed onto Marius’s arm saying, “Gather the other _amis_ and meet back at the café.”

Marius ran off, and Grantaire hurried back along the barricade, noting with despair that almost all of it had crumbled away. He could see the soldiers regrouping just a few feet outside. It wouldn’t be long before they attacked again.

Behind the barricade was a wasteland. Dead bodies were strewn about, and Grantaire hurried between them, gathering weapons that had been discarded. He saw several people he recognized, and shuddered, wondering what the hell this had all been for.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras ran up to him. He was carrying a red flag, and the rain was turning his hair a dark gold. “The barricades have all fallen.”

“I know,” Grantaire said, and he grabbed his hand, “Enjolras, I’m so sorry.”

“Grantaire!” He heard his name again, this time it was Courfeyrac. He was with Combeferre and Joly, but Marius was nowhere in sight. “Head back to the café!”

The National Guard was now marching passed the barricade, killing off any survivors, and heading for the group as they stood in the rain, their weapons nearly empty.

Grantaire held onto Enjolras’s hand and they joined the other _amis_ , retreating to the café.

“Up the stairs,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire lead the group up the stairs. He locked the door behind him and turned around to face his friends. Their faces were terrified and they gripped their guns tight.

It was quiet, and Grantaire could hear the soldiers moving around on the first floor of the café. Grantaire hated to think about them down there; the Café Musain had basically been his home ever since he’d first started attending meetings. It didn’t seem right for the enemy to be there.

Grantaire met Courfeyrac’s eyes and was about to tell him to gather what weapons he could, that they would go downstairs and see if they couldn’t kill a few officers, when shots rang through the floor. Grantaire jumped from the shock, horrified as he saw Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Joly fall to the floor.

Grantaire closed his eyes, his heart racing. He was the only one left.

“Don’t be afraid,” Enjolras said, and he handed Grantaire the flag.

Grantaire went over to stand by the window, hand-in-hand with Enjolras. He looked out then, seeing what had become of their small part of Paris. The streets were flowing with blood.

Grantaire heard the soldiers walking up the stairs, and turned to look at Enjolras.

Enjolras gave him a reassuring smile and squeezed his hand.

“You were amazing,” he said, “we made a difference, even if we did not win.”

Grantaire laughed then, “Always the optimist, Apollo.”

The National Guard pushed open the door and surrounded him, aiming their guns at his chest.

 “ _Vive le Republique!_ ” he shouted, and raised the red flag above his head. He wasn’t afraid to die.

The officers took aim, and fired, filling Grantaire with bullets.

He fell to the ground, his whole body burning, the air forced from his lungs.

He could feel Enjolras’s arms around him, holding him close.

“I will see you soon,” Enjolras whispered, fingers running lightly along Grantaire’s cheek.

“If you permit it,” Grantaire tried to say, but his mouth was filled with blood. Enjolras seemed to understand, and leaned in to kiss Grantaire as his vision faded to black.


End file.
